After the Battle Is Won
by Master Fwiffo
Summary: Three Minicons stumble upon one who tormented them in the past - and their duty is to save his life.


Fields of the dead. For a near immortal race, fields of the dead were a horrific prospect, and an even more horrific sight. The carnage stretched across the horizon, thousands of unmoving forms, each an extinguished spark, their bodies left to rust on the field. Smoke still seeped from smoldering forms whose inner fire had long since gone out.

One form, far minuscule in comparison to the rest, stood atop the hulk of a particularly large corpse, looking out with a wide, telescoping visor. His face managed to grimace, the slit eye narrowed, and, with a loud sigh, he hopped down from the corpse, landing on the ground with a thud. He glanced towards his two companions and grimly signaled a negative.

"Nothing as far as I can tell."

The stockier of two companions shook his head. "Slagging shame. Never a pretty sight."

The third, slimmer despite her bulky arms, protested quickly. "That can't be right. On a field this size... someone has to be alive. Hot Spot, they-"

"Ain't always the case, Makeshift my dear." The stocky one replied sadly. "Some battles nobody walks away from."

Prowl, the third member fidgeted uneasily. "I've never seen a battlefield this big. Who won?"

"Bots probably." Hot Spot said quietly. "Otherwise, there'd still be some alive down there. The Cons never pick up wounded that ain't their own."

Makeshift and Prowl solemnly took a view of the field, over the tangle of torn apart and dismembered bodies, many still leaking their coolant fluids.

"We better go." Hot Spot said quietly. "There isn't anything more we can do."

"All this way here and we couldn't do anything..." Prowls' voice was thick with sorrow.

"It happens, kid." Hot Spot answered, shifting his form downward into a stocky red vehicle. "Let's go." Makeshift followed his lead, transforming herself outward into a twin rotor helicopter. And Prowl looked out upon the field one last time, before transforming into a small, sleeker car. And the three headed out through the field of carnage.

Some time passed, as the trio continued onwards past an endless stream of horrific sights. Discarded weapons still attached to their severed limbs. Mutilated faces staring mouth agape at the reddish sky. Bodies lying on their backs with sword-like weapons still imbedded, their points shoved straight into the ground. Mechanical life-forms such as these rarely faced death, but this field was full of ended lives. Some had lived for only a few years, others for a thousand at least. A million stories connected to a million ended lives, all finished with the blast of a rifle or the tip of a sword.

Prowl shuddered involuntarily at each and every sight. Far younger than his friends, he had yet to develop the resistance to the shock of war. They had been following the conflict for several stellar cycle's now, three miniature versions of the thousands who lay dead now. They had been dubbed Minicons as an insult, and their kind shared their now war-torn world with their larger brethren.

Despite many grievances the larger robots caused the smaller kind, Hot Spot and his comrades remained steadfast in what they felt was their duty. All three shared a deep concern for the living, and the cessation of all hostilities. But the voice of three was insignificant compared to those who clamored for victory. So they followed, from battlefield to battlefield, looking for those who lived, but were left behind, in the hopes that they may survive to walk again.

Prowl halted, rolling to a slow stop. It took a few moments for his comrades to notice his stall. Hotspot saw him first, turning around to face him. Makeshift continued on forward absently till Hotspot called her. Hotspot transformed, looking down at the younger Minicon. "What's wrong kid?"

"One of my sensors went off." Prowl said quietly, unfolding himself into his robot mode. "I detected life signs."

Makeshift transformed too, grabbing him with uncharacteristic roughness. "Where?"

Prowl pushed her away. "It's faint." He said. "I'll need to get higher." He looked around before spotting a larger transformer's body laying sideways. He quickly clambered up the side of it and scanned the area, his visor switching colors as it flashed between different modes. Finally he stopped, narrowing his field of vision.

"I see him!" He yelled suddenly, leaping off his perch and landing in vehicle mode, roaring off with his tires squealing in protest as he navigated the fields of the dead.

"Wait up kid!" Hot Spot yelled, and he and Makeshift transformed, moving after him as quick as they could.

---

They found him standing, silent and in shock. "No." He whispered, his voice cracking as he quaked with fear. "Impossible..." Makeshift's hands went to her mouth in a look of horror, and Hot Spot immediately turned away, fire and hatred in his eyes.

Before them was a sight familiar in more ways than one. The Decepticon lay propped up against the shattered wreck of a starship. His wounds were grievous - his lower jaw had been sheared cleanly from his body, and his entire right side, from his hip to his shoulder had been shredded, with gaping wounds showing his insides freely. A small lake of coolants and other critical fluids gathered around the robot's body. Despite the injuries, labored breaths could be heard as the Cybertronian struggled to intake air into his coolant system. He was alive - a hellish, twisted variant of alive, but alive nonetheless.

But the horrors of war was not what terrified them. These sights were commonplace, and they had seen far worse. What terrified them was the face - one they recognized all too well. They did not know his name. They had never learned it. But they knew the face well. And they knew the actions, the torment, and the terror that were associated with it, horrors they had all experienced personally.

Prowl's optic was clenched tightly. "It can't be." He murmured, over and over again, kneeling to the ground as if sudden pain overwhelmed him. "It can't be him. It can't..."

Hot Spot clenched his fists, a guttural sound of rage rising from his vocals. "You two move on and continue to look for survivors. I'll take care of this one." His fist whirred, forming a a small cannon.

"Hot Spot, wait!"

Hot Spot cast a sidelong glance at Makeshift. "Go on." He growled. "Don't try and stop me."

"I have to." Makeshift said, her own voice cracking as she planted herself in front of him. "I can't let you do this."

Hot Spot shook his head violently. "No, Makeshift." He hissed, hatred filling his every word. "You know what he did! By the Pit, you suffered the worst of all of us! This one must die!"

Makeshift put her arms up defensively. "Don't you remember the oath we took!" She cried. "We swore to protect life. All life!"

"His life isn't worth protecting!" Hot Spot yelled. "Get out of the way Makeshift, or Primus help me, I'll slag you too!"

"Then shoot me." She said, her jaw set and her eyes defiant.

Hot Spot paused, hesitating.

"You can't stop me." Makeshift said sternly, her optics locked with Hot Spot's. "I will save this life."

Hot Spot swore loudly and turned away. "Then do it yourself." With an angry huff, he transformed, slamming back into his boxy vehicle mode, and roaring off.

Makeshift cast a sorrowful glance over at Prowl. The young bot refused to meet her gaze, instead opting to stare wearily and silently at the ground, lost in a tangle of nightmares. Makeshift sighed, and turned back to the fallen Decepticon. She transformed, twin rotors whirring into action, lifting her agile form into the air, and bringing her up to the Decepticon's head level. She shifted again, her tiny and light form delicately landing on the wounded Cybertronian's shoulder.

The head was leaning against the ship's hull, staring vacantly into the distance. Below his eyes was a tangled mass of wires and structural remnants - his jaw had been pulled clean off, the mess below was all that was left of his vocal and air intake systems. Air still entered in and out of the valves, grating a wheezing, gasping sound. Makeshift winced at the sight, but stepped forward regardless, laying her hand on the remains of the Decepticon's cheek.

"Can you hear me?" She asked softly.

No response met her but the rhythmic wheezing. The eyes continued to stare vacantly into the distance.

"Don't worry." She said gently. "I'll fix you up. You'll be ok."

No answer.

Makeshift turned away, and shuddered involuntarily as several painful memories threatened to leap forth and overtake her mind. "It's just another patient." She whispered quietly, painfully. "Even him..." She cast a glance back up at him, and for a moment, it seemed as if he was looking back. But no, the head hadn't moved. He was all but lifeless.

----

Hot Spot trundled back to the body some time later. He glanced at Prowl, who hadn't moved since he had left. "How you feeling kid?" He asked gently, kneeling aside the younger Minicon.

Prowl shook his head. "Every time I see his face." He croaked. "I go back..."

"Just don't look." Hot Spot muttered gruffly. He got to his feet and walked up to the body, suppressing another shudder. "Are you done yet?" He yelled at the body. A moment later, Makeshift appeared from under his shredded side. Hot Spot grimaced - she was drenched in coolants and internal fluids, covered with grease, grit and dirt. She looked at him wearily, almost unable to stand under her own power.

"It's worse than I thought." She said, trying to maintain the level of professionalism she was known for. "Half of his fluid tubes have been torn out. He must have been caught under the wheels of somebody a lot bigger than him. I've been running bypasses and reconnecting them where I can, but it's not going well. I'm going to have to go into his chest."

"Spark fluids?" Hot Spot asked, his nature as a medic beginning to rouse his curiosity.

"Not yet." She sighed. "The chamber doesn't look to be ruptured, but there's a lot of pressure build up. I'm worried. I could use your help."

Hot Spot's curiosity vanished. "No. Do what you need to, and then we're getting out of here."

"Dammit Hot Spot," Makeshift growled, "Stop being so slagging stubborn. I've got a life on the line-"

"And maybe you've forgotten what he did to you!" Hot Spot snapped.

Makeshift turned on her heels, and transformed, flying up to the fallen Decepticon's upper body levels.

"You have forgotten, haven't you!" Hot Spot called after her. Makeshift ignored him, transforming again, and planting herself on the abdomen. She quickly got to work, delicately working her hands into her patient's chest cavity. She gave a pull and two hinges popped. The Decepticon's chest swung open, revealing the mess of internal wires within. She gently pushed her hands in, carefully pulling the wires aside to reveal the clear sphere that held the warrior's spark, still pulsating with a dim light. She knelt closer to examine for any signs of fractures or cracks. Stress marks appeared at all the connecting joints, symptoms of the trauma his body had been through. She shook her head grimly, and began poking into the tubing, searching for the splits and cracks that still caused his internal fluids to leak to the ground below. Her movements were delicate, as to not disturb the precious orb that gave all Transformer's life. The fluids in the spark-core served a dual purpose - not only did they protect and nourish the spark, but they also sent the life-energy that powers all Transformers to other points in the body. The fact that the core was still intact was the only reason her patient was alive at all - but he wouldn't remain that way unless the leaks that spilt the spark fluid on the ground below were all sealed.

"Don't you remember?" The gravely voice spoke behind her. Makeshift ignored him.

But Hot Spot was not about to be ignored. "I remember." He continued, "I remember well. The dark and lonely cell. The isolation and terror. Not knowing what was going to happen, where we were. Torn from our homes by gigantic vicious monsters and thrown into the cages to await our fate. We feared death." He paused for a moment, eyes closed as he was transported back. "But death would have been a mercy."

"Shut up." Makeshift said, her voice cracking. She reached in and grabbed a severed coolant tube, and dug in deeper, trying to find a place where she could reconnect it and get the precious fluids flowing back into his system.

"They took you apart Makeshift. Piece by piece, they pulled you apart, even as you screamed and begged for mercy. But all that came were the barrage of needles and claws, grabbing at you and rearranging you into something you were never meant to be. And through it all, his face, glaring down on us like Unicron himself." A choking noise followed his brief pause. "I remember... Oh Primus, I remember him smiling, laughing at our suffering!" Hot Spot's voice broke and he became silent for a long moment.

Makeshift tried to re-focus on her work, but the vivid memories she knew so well kept trying to resurface, trying to re-emerge and take hold of her. She grabbed hold of a good bypass point, but found she could not hold her hands steady anymore. She stared at her quaking hands with a strange sense of shock as she realized her own body was now refusing to obey her.

Hot Spot's voice broke the silence, filled with pain as he forced himself to go on. "But that wasn't all."

"Stop it..." Makeshift said weakly.

"Do you remember, being forced to Transform, their hands pushing in on us from all directions, forcing us to contort in ways we were never meant? Do you remember being forced to connect with him, feeling his energy violate your body and drain it dry? Do you remember the humiliation, the degradation, and the absolute torture that occurred every time you saw his grinning face? Do you remember what he turned you into?"

"Stop!"

"A weapon. He made us all his toys, his weapons, so he could kill with our bodies, our energies, our very sparks."

"STOP IT!" She screamed.

"I still remember the first time..." Her partner's voice cracked. "The Autobot pleading for his life, the look of horror on his face as I killed him. He... he made me kill. He made me kill, Makeshift! Oh Primus, he made me kill!" Hot Spot collapsed to the ground, drowned in the memories, scars and pain he had bore for so long.

Makeshift too huddled in a small ball as her own nightmares and horrors assaulted her mind, forcing whimpers from her voice box. The two did not speak for a long time, with Prowl watching from the distance, caught up in his own terrible reminiscence of what they had all endured...

---

It was some time before Makeshift could return to her work. She didn't say a word, just stood and resumed her task as though nothing had happened.

On the ground below, Hot Spot watched wearily. Every once in a while, his eyes would drift up to the shattered face, that continued its dull stare and heavy breathing. Then revulsion would overwhelm him and he would turn away, the haunting memories fighting for control of his mind.

They had escaped from imprisonment along with many other Minicons during an Autobot assault on the base where they had been kept. The other Minicons had left them afterwards, wandering off in their own directions in an attempt to rebuild their shattered lives. But Makeshift, Prowl and Hot Spot himself had no such lives to return to.

A medic since as long as he could remember, Hot Spot had watched everyone he had ever cared for ripped apart in front of his eyes as they dared fight back against the Decepticon invaders. Makeshift's entire colony had been destroyed in a catastrophic explosion caused by Decepticon guns, she and a few others being quickly picked up. And Prowl - Prowl had no memories of any past life. All he could ever remember was the nightmare he went through at the hands of the Decepticons - the one that lay before them now in particular.

All the three shared was a shattered past, and a love of life. But their bonds grew quickly, and they were soon like family. Makeshift had some prior medical knowledge, but Hot Spot had taught her more, and with her natural skill and eye for detail, she had quickly surpassed him as a field medic. Prowl had no such talent, but he was eager to learn, and did what he could to help.

But this...

Hot Spot had thought - hoped, prayed - that the body before him now had perished in the Autobot assault. He had no ill will against the Decepticons as a whole, as most were just poor fools tricked into a war that no one, Autobot or Decepticon, truly seemed to believe in. But the beast, the hellish figure before him, was in his mind more monster than machine. The myths of Unicron and stories of such demons seemed personified in this Decepticon's sadistic love of torture.

He turned his attention back to Prowl. He had been silent and unmoving since Makeshift had began her work. Hot Spot didn't blame him. When the beginning of one's existence consisted entirely of a nightmare, anything that would bring back the past could be devastating. It was just as devastating to him.

His eyes continued to wander back to the Decepticon, almost as though they were rebelling against him to look again. Hatred was an emotion foreign to him, yet every glance at that face brought it surging back. Once or twice his hand twitched, threatening to transform into a cannon - the only real weapon they had between the three of them. Hot Spot had sworn to use it only in defense, but now, the temptation was overwhelming.

"I want to go."

Hot Spot glanced woefully back at Prowl, who was staring at the ground. "Please... can we go?" His voice was weak and pitiful.

"I want to go too, lad." Hot Spot said softly. "But we can't. Not without her."

He sorrowfully stared back up at Makeshift, who continued her diligent work, and shook his head. "Damn her. Why can't she just let this one go?"

Prowl didn't answer.

Hot Spot continued to watch his prodigy, and for some reason, what he had just said echoed through his mind. He watched her hands deftly moving through the Decepticon's body. "Why can't she let him go?" He repeated. For reasons he could not understand, that question soon occupied his entire mind.

---

Makeshift paused, leaning back with a sigh. Despite all the time she had put into it, no progress seemed to have been made. Occasionally she would run another diagnostic, only to find that the life signs were as weak as before. Despite her efforts, his systems refused to stabilize.

She touched the spark chamber lightly, cautious around the Transformer's sole source of life. "Please, hold on." She whispered. "I can do this. I will do this. You deserve to live as much as anyone else."

She sighed, turning back to face her friends. If only they could help her, she might get the job done. But they wouldn't. And Makeshift did not blame them for that.

A sudden beeping from her instruments caught her attention. She whirled, hands racing over all her readouts, in a frantic search for the source of the problem. The beeping increased in frequency and intensity, signaling that something was going very, very wrong. Her hands sped over the instrumentation, looking for something, anything that could tell her what was happening.

Suddenly the Decepticon's labored intakes became faster and more intense, a pained groan escaping from his torn throat. Makeshift all but dove into the wires, trying to find the root cause. Without warning, one of her pressure gauges spiked. She stared at the reading, dumbfounded for a moment, and then whirled, just in time to see one of the major regulators to the spark chamber burst.

She lunged at the severed tube, grabbing it, and sending a torrent of blue spark-chamber fluid over her body. She screamed out a desperate cry for help as she grasped blindly at the other tubes, trying to find one she could use as an emergency bypass. Horror gripped her as she realized that it was her own error. In her zeal to save his life she had connected too many bypasses into one tube, overloading the regulators and spiking the pressure. It was a foolish, obvious mistake. But it was too late.

She fumbled with the spraying tube, trying to find a place for it to go, trying to find some way to stop the flow, but no solution presented itself. She cried out in desperation and defiance, "I won't lose him! I won't lose him now!" But the fluid continued to spray and the spark chamber's pressure dropped, and her panic gave way to despair. Cracks were forming along the edges of the spark chamber due to the sudden pressure decrease. Her patient was dying.

"Help..." She said weakly, though she knew no one would come. "Please..."

But then, two strong hands gripped her own, guiding them. A heavy voice bellowed, "Prowl, keep those secondary regulators from rupturing!" Hot Spot's hands guided

Makeshift's own for a moment, then he dove in himself, working deftly with skill that could only come from Solar Cycles of experience, as he repositioned the gushing tube above the spark chamber, and then drove it in, past the regulator and straight into the chamber itself. Secondary leaks began to spring from the chamber as he roughly wielded the tube back in.

He turned his attention back to the spark chamber. "I need you to disconnect several of your spark-core bypasses, and bring them to me." He yelled at Makeshift. "Don't worry about the pressure drops right now! Hurry!"

Makeshift responded, digging in and finding all her secondaries, yanking them free from their holdings and passing them to Hot Spot, patching up the fresh leaks afterwards.

Hot Spot took the two bypasses for a moment, and then sighed. With a grunt, he smashed his fist straight through the leaking spark chamber, punching two holes in it. As the fluids came gushing out, he slammed the two new bypasses straight into the holes he created, and immediately got to work wielding them. A moment later, he stepped back, and sighed.

Hot Spot observed his handiwork for a moment. The Decepticon's interior was now a crosswork of tubes, all connecting to places they weren't designed to connect to.

But he was alive, and stable. The Decepticon's breathing slowed, then returned to normal.

Prowl emerged from the their patient's side, looking dazed. Hot Spot gave him a quick thumbs up. Makeshift stared at both, spent and weary, unable to speak.

Hot Spot stepped forward, and lay his hand on her shoulder. "It's ok. You did your best."

Makeshift grabbed him and gripped him tightly, holding close to him for support as her own legs gave way under the stress, sobs threatening to break from her shaking body. "Thank you," Her voice came faintly, "Thank you."

"None of that." Hot Spot said gently. "He's stable, but that's not going to hold for long. We've got to find another solution."

"All right." She said wearily, attempting to stand under her own power, but failing. Hot Spot steadied her. "Easy now. Maybe you should take a rest."

"No." Makeshift shook her head. "This is something I have to do."

Prowl started forward. "No Makeshift, you're exhausted. You should-"

Hot Spot waved his hand and Prowl's voice trailed off. Hot Spot looked Makeshift straight in the eye. "This is something you have to do. That's why I came to help you. I finally understood why you need to do this."

Makeshift didn't make eye contact with him.

"It's not about him." Hot Spot said softly. "It's not about saving a life. It's about you, and finding a way to finally conquer all the pain in your past. Isn't it?"

"Yes." Makeshift answered, her voice uncertain.

"I understand that now. And that's why I'm going to help you save him."

Makeshift couldn't find the words to answer. Hot Spot turned, facing the Decepticon, whose labored intakes were coming far slower now. "All right, then. Come on guys, we've got a life to save."

---

Prowl was sent to scavenge for replacement parts while Makeshift and Hot Spot stayed together, monitoring the Decepticon's slowly failing life signs. Tiny cracks in the spark chamber were slowly draining the fluid that sustained his spark's life, but the pressure was remaining stable. Long enough, hopefully, for the two to finish their work.

With the exception of the spark chamber itself, most of the severed coolant systems were replaced or reconnected, so that his fluid systems, at least, were functioning normally. Keeping a careful eye on the spark chamber, the two quickly set about the relatively easier task - replacing and repairing the broken joints and supports.

Both Makeshift and Hot Spot worked in relative silence for a long time, only speaking when needing to. Hot Spot was too engrossed in his work to notice how withdrawn Makeshift was at the moment. Makeshift's own thoughts were a mess of uncertainty. What Hot Spot had said to her, about conquering her own personal demons, did not sit well with her. It wasn't an intent she liked, and it wasn't one she felt was accurate.

Every so often her eyes would dart back to the Decepticon's face, almost as if the form, which had seemed so nightmarish to her all those ages ago, took on a new attraction. Something about the pain and suffering his optics told of struck a deep chord within her, something different from what Hot Spot had said.

She fiddled with the joint-wires she had been working on for the past few clicks, and sighed, dropping them, and leaning backwards, propping herself up with her arms.

"You ok?"

Makeshift sighed deeply. "I just need... a moment."

"Ok." Hot Spot shrugged, returning to his work. Makeshift glanced up at him curiously. All his past hostility seemed to have disappeared. She knew Hot Spot well, and she knew the sacrifices he would make to help those he cared about.

Perhaps he had forgone his own nature to help her. While that was a sentiment she appreciated, she didn't want it to happen under a false pretense. If only she could understand what the feelings inside her really meant...

A shout suddenly caught their attention. Prowl came running up, his siren blaring. "Guys! A ship's coming!" He yelled frantically. "It's Decepticon!"

Hot Spot glanced worriedly at Makeshift. "We'd better move Makeshift."

Makeshift shook her head. "I can't leave him. Not like this. His spark chamber is still in danger of-"

"No objections." Hot Spot was gruff. "Sorry, but this is a matter of your own safety." He grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's get to cover."

"Give me a moment!" Makeshift protested, transforming and taking to the air.

"Makeshift get back here!" Hot Spot yelled, but he was ignored.

Makeshift landed on the Decepticon's shoulder. "I'm sorry." She said quietly, bowing her head. "I'm sorry... I couldn't finish... I couldn't fix you. Will you forgive me?"

Her eyes looked up to the Decepticon's face. To her surprise it was staring back at her. The head bowed a slight bit, and from the wheezing, barely functioning vocals, a sound came out - half groan, half an attempt to speak. But the attempt failed, and the Decepticon lapsed back into silence. Makeshift stared uncomfortably at the body, trying to discern what he had been trying to say, until a rough hand grabbed her.

"Next time, say goodbye without the risk of getting us killed." Hot Spot growled, pulling her away. The two ran off, joining Prowl under the cover of the wrecked starship. The three minicons huddled close together, yet Makeshift's thoughts were not on the two beside her.

A nano-click later, the moan of the approaching ship's engines dwarfed all sounds, then faded as the ship slowed to a hover. Footsteps could be heard as two sets of feet landed on the ground.

A coarse voice spoke. "He really is alive? No slag?"

"Must be one of the real lucky ones. Come on, let's get him home."

"Can they fix him?"

"Dunno. Maybe. I've seen 'em come through worse. Let's go."

The two Decepticons gathered their fallen comrade up, disturbing the dirt and the wreck so much that the Minicons cowering inside feared the roof would collapse in on them. But as the dust settled, Makeshift pushed herself away from her comrades and risked a peek outside. She caught the Decepticons hauling the body into the ship, the Decepticon she had once feared so much, now a limp, almost dead weight. But even listless, the broken warrior, the one she had fought so hard to save, seemed to lift his head up and stare right back at her. A grumble came from his voice, and for a moment, she seemed to hear a word. "Forgive..."

The two Decepticons handling him glanced at him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Poor guy, must be hallucinating or something." One of them muttered, and pulled him inside, ready to pull the hatch closed.

As Makeshift stared after them, the realization finally came forth of why she had been so compelled to save him. Forgive....

There was a sudden roar as the engines ignited, and the ship took off, heading over the field of bodies, its sole survivor secured.

"You ok?" Hot Spot said, coming up behind her, laying his hand on her shoulder.

"You were wrong." Makeshift said softly. "I wasn't doing it to conquer him. I was doing it... to let him know."

"Let him know what?" Prowl asked quietly.

Makeshift turned to him, a sad smile in her eyes. "That I forgave him."

Hot Spot seemed taken aback for a long moment, but slowly, ever so slowly, a saddened smile crept onto his face. "Then you did what I couldn't." He gently took her hands in his. "Let's go. The war moves on."

"And so must we." Makeshift finished.

Prowl watched the two, admiration in his eyes. Perhaps, he thought for a moment, if everyone were like them, the war could finally end. Then they could settle down, and return to peace.

The three transformed and drove off, leaving the field of the dead behind them, into a bright future ahead.


End file.
